and this is all for you
by jadeddiva
Summary: His eyes are wide and so very blue, and there's something about the earnestness in his gaze that makes her look away least she betray something (what, she doesn't know). Lieutenant Duckling.


**and this is all for you**

**Summary:** _His eyes are wide and so very blue, and there's something about the earnestness in his gaze that makes her look away least she betray something (what, she doesn't know). Lieutenant Duckling._

"And this, your highness, is the creation of your house with the birth of the first sovereign, Walter the Kind…"

Emma nods, meeting the docent's eyes as he points to yet another one of her ancestors whose paintings line the wall of the gallery. Beside her, she can hear her escort shift, the scuff of his boots on the floor as they proceed to the next painting.

This outing was her parent's idea. Captain Liam Jones is the most-lauded captain in all the royal fleet. Her parents love the man, heap praises on him and his younger brother, who is now standing beside her. Lieutenant Jones is not yet a captain, but her parents say that he will be by the end of the year and then, perhaps, Emma might cast a favorable eye upon him.

This constant push to marry her off is frustrating, but she supposes at seven-and-ten she should consider her prospects and as far as prospects go, she's could do far worse than Lieutenant Killian Jones. He is handsome, and well mannered, and he looks about as bored as she is right now.

His lips move silently as they progress to the next painting, hands clasped behind his back, and Emma smiles. The _Jewel of the Realm_ is set to sail tomorrow and he probably would rather be on his ship, preparing.

"When do you set sail?" she whispers when the docent turns his back.

"Sunrise, but if all of the supplies aren't loaded and the crew is indisposed then we won't make it out of port until mid-day," he replies automatically, then stops. His mouth is agape for a moment before he closes it, slowly, and his eyes meet hers before looking down.

"I apologize, Princess Emma," he tells her, and she can see his face flush.

"I understand, Lieutenant." Emma smiles easily, because she does understand - she would rather not spend her afternoon pleasantly admiring paintings of dead kings.

"It's not the company, your highness, it's just that my ship - " Lieutenant Jones stutters out, and the flush deepens. His eyes are wide when he says, "It's not you."

The honesty of his statement takes Emma's breath away, and for a moment it's like she really sees the young officer standing before her. His eyes are wide and so very blue, and there's something about the earnestness in his gaze that makes her look away least she betray something (what, she doesn't know).

"Princess Emma?" the docent says softly. She looks back up at the older man, who is waiting patiently to proceed.

"Of course." She smiles and nods. As they proceed down the hall to another room full of more portraits, she lets her hand fall by her side. And when his fingers brush against hers softly, she can't help but smile.

(She doesn't dare look up to see if his face mirrors her own, but a small part of her knows that it does.)

They spend the afternoon lingering in the gallery, making quiet comments to each other behind the docent's back (she tries to hold back laughter – for all his proper manners, he has an acidic wit that she finds very appealing). They share smiles as they leave the cool recesses of the palace and head into the garden, where they sit by a fountain and Emma asks him about his travels.

"How long will you be gone for?" she asks, spreading her fingers on the warm stone, watching has his fingers brush against hers.

"At least a year, if not longer," he tells her, ducking his head down before looking at her shyly.

"Will you write to me?" she asks. "I want to hear about your travels." She never leaves the palace, very much doubts that she ever will, and so she likes the idea of learning more about the world just as much as she likes the idea of him writing to her.

"I will do my best, your highness," he tells her.

"You must promise me, Lieutenant Jones," she teases.

"I promise," he says solemnly, with that same earnestness that she saw earlier. "And you may call me Killian, if it is not too forward."

"Thank you, Killian." Her tongue rolls around the syllables of his name, appreciating both the newness of it – this breach of decorum, this familiarity that her parents would frown upon – as well as the way he smiles so brightly when she says it.

It is a smile Emma could get used to, and so she says his name twice more before they leave the garden, and whispers it as he leaves the palace after supper that night. When she dreams, she dreams of his wide smile, and eyes as blue as the sea, and she hopes he remembers to write her.

…

On their way back to the ship, Liam must ask him three times if he enjoyed his afternoon until he finally answers: his mind is full of Emma, of her hair and her face and her smile, the way at her eyes sparkled when she said his name.

"It was fair enough," he tells his older brother.

"The princess is fair enough," Liam teases him. He stops, and looks at his brother up and down. "You are enamored with her!"

"She has asked me to write her," Killian says with a smile. He looks down. "Should I?"

"The princess of the realm wishes you to write her, little brother, then you should do it. There is very little for you have to lose, and much more to gain." Liam claps his on his shoulder as they approach the ship.

There are things to be done prior to their departure, and so it is not until later, when Killian is in his bunk, that he finally is able to think about the princess. _Emma_, he thinks, wondering just what he shall say in his letters. _Emma emma emma Emma_ (it sounds like the rocking of the ship) lulls him to sleep.

**two years later**

It has been two years since he last saw her, and he has thought of her every day since then.

His steps up to the castle are filled with nervous energy, barely contained as Killian conjures up her face on the day they last spoke, when Princess Emma watched the Jewel leave. She waved from the dock, smiling that shy smile that he very much liked.

_ He wrote, and with every correspondence sent to the King and Queen, he included a letter for her. He wrote to her about their voyages, wrote about the lands he traveled to and the wealth that it would bring her parents and the kingdom. He never said anything personal - never included any declarations of intent, for he assumed always that royal post traveled through many hands prior to reaching the princess._

_And despite docking in friendly ports, no letters reached him in reply._

Liam thinks that the princess has not responded because the letters did not receive her, but Killian is not that optimistic: they received royal orders while on their journey, after all.

Killian realizes that even though this week the King and Queen will promote him to captain, and Liam to the rank of admiral - that they will be feted and celebrated throughout the realm for what they have accomplished - that even though he will become something more than he ever thought, he still is that little orphan boy scrounging the streets of Harbortowne, still the lad who picked the pockets of those who came into the tavern near the docks. He is not worthy of a princess, no matter how beguiling her smile and how sincere her eyes.

The ball has already begun when they arrive. The women are dressed in splendid colors, the tables are laden with food and wine - far too much wine. Liam thrusts a goblet into Killian's hand but he takes only a sip before returning it to a footman nearby. He has to be sober for this evening.

The King and Queen greet the heroes with easy smiles, and there is small talk of their journey and the week ahead.

"You will try to enjoy yourself, _Captain_ Jones," the King says with a grin, and Killian does his best to mirror it. He nods, glancing around the room for the princess.

"Someone go fetch Emma and Baelfire," Queen Snow tells a nearby servant, "she will want to greet the Jones brothers," and with her words, Killian feels his heart drop. Emma has no brother, so Baelfire must be -

- of course. The letters were not returned because she was already betrothed. Of course.

He is only the lad from Harbortowne. It was only one afternoon. They were just letters. Nothing more.

It is that moment that he realizes Emma has been a dream, something to keep his mind active during the journey, but nothing more. He knows very little about her save what they shared that one afternoon together.

He has been a fool to think she would wait for a captain of the royal navy.

He steadies himself, focuses only on the king speaking about the schedule of events, ignores Liam's concerned gaze. He focuses so intently on what the king is saying that the arrival of the princess startles him. Killian collects himself, and then turns to greet her.

"Princess Emma," he says with a bow. He does not meet her eyes but instead looks at the young man who stands beside her (he looks oddly familiar, but Killian cannot place him, does not know who he reminds him of). "Lieutenant Killian Jones, at your service Lord - "

"Baelfire," the other man says with a nod of his head. Killian does not inquire further about his connection to the royal family.

Liam introduces himself as well, and then Queen Snow interrupts. "They are too modest - their promotions are the reasons for such celebrations."

"Congratulations," Princess Emma says, and Killian looks at her. What he sees surprises him, for she is looking at him with great care and concern. His discomfort must be obvious. He shall strive to do better. He fixes a smile on his face, the one that he uses at all those uncomfortable meetings at foreign ports of call, and nods his head.

"Thank you very much, your highness," he tells her.

He does not wish her congratulations - it is Liam who inquires, Liam who smiles with great cheer, Liam who asks her if he may steal a dance.

Killian is not one for small talk on the best of days, and so he lingers idly by the king and queen and Emma's betrothed, struggling to find something to say. He tries not to watch her out of the corner of his eye but he fails, and when Liam returns, he excuses himself.

The air outside of the castle is cool on his face, and he takes great gulps of it, trying to forget the smell of her perfume (jasmine and honey, they must have brought it on one of their first voyages to the south) and the way that she looked at him, sad and concerned. He is just a boy from Harbortowne, just a naval officer, just a man who thought -

He glances at the stars, tries to rectify the present with his own hopes for the future. He has been foolish; captains are not foolish. He has been easily swayed by brilliant green eyes; a captain like Liam would not let that happen, would not make that mistake. He must become who they think he is - someone harder, someone stronger, someone who is not heartbroken at the thought of his dreams turning to ash.

Killian Jones squares his shoulder, and carefully composes his face. It would not do a captain in the royal navy to not serve his king and queen, whatever their wishes. They would wish that he return to his duty inside the ball.

Captain Killian Jones will serve his king and country; he cannot serve his heart.

…

Emma looks at herself in the mirror, and pinches her cheeks once more. She looks so pale otherwise that her mother will fear her sick, and she does not want to draw any attention today. Smoothing down the front of her bodice, she checks her reflection in the mirror once more before deciding that this will do.

Today is the day that Lieutenant Jones is to be promoted, and she is to stand at her father's side while he makes the proclamation. Emma wishes nothing more than for this day to be over - for Lieutenant Jones to stop greeting her as a stranger, to get on his ship and leave.

(She doesn't want him to - it pains her to think of it, breaks her heart open when she considers that it may be years before she sees him again. He will not send her letters this time, she knows.)

Lieutenant Jones has been distant since his arrival, and it is Emma's own foolishness that has allowed her heart to be cleaved so - she should have known better. She is engaged now, and it is not to him despite her parents' intentions that one afternoon so long ago. She will marry Baelfire, she will bear him sons and daughters, and she will rule with him. Baelfire is a good man, she knows, but there is nothing like the small spark that she saw in Killian Jones's eyes, nothing that makes her wait with bated breath for this union the way she waited for that first letter, so long ago.

All of the letters he sent are wrapped in ribbon and hidden in her trunk, edges worn, writing smudged. She's read them so many times she knows the words by heart, can recite them on command, but she never answered them.

_How do you tell a man you love him in a letter?_

Her maids open the door and Baelfire is outside, waiting for her. She smiles and gives her arm. He will be a good husband, she knows. He will be fair. But his eyes are not blue though they are kind, and while his words are thoughtful, they lack the earnestness of another man, one who only acknowledges her in polite nods and small talk.

The great hall is set up for the ceremony, her mother and father already at their stations, and she joins them, silently, as they wait. Her stomach flips in knots as the door opens, and soon the Jones brothers approach the throne.

The ceremony is a blur for Emma, who spends most of it trying and failing to not look at Killian - that is how he signed his letters, Lieutenant Killian Jones, she knows the script so well that she can see it if she closes her eyes - who stands with shoulders back, so focused on her father.

She wonders if he is ignoring her on purpose, or if this is how he really is. Was this all just a youthful dalliance, an opportunity to charm the princess so she would speak in his favor and secure not only his commission but that of his brother? But even as she thinks this, she knows it is unjust. For all the stoicism he displays here, there was a warmth in his letters that she came to admire, and that man is buried somewhere inside the man who stands before her now.

Emma promises herself she will speak to him tonight - tell him how much he means to her, and how she truly hopes he is happy.

The ceremony ends, and the dinner begins, and Emma smiles and laughs and does everything that is expected of her. Luckily, she is seated beside Admiral Jones, who is kind and gracious and refills her wine with an easy smile.

"I am so very happy for you," she tells him, but her eyes stray past him to his brother, who is engaged in serious conversation with her father's master of coin. If he notices her, he does not look up.

"I hope that my brother has not been rude towards you, Princess," Admiral Jones starts, but Emma shakes her head.

"No, of course not - he has had very little to do with me at all, Admiral," Emma says in response. She covers her mouth immediately afterwards, surprised that she has been so blunt.

"I see," Admiral Jones says with a small smile. "You must forgive my brother his behavior - despite all of his pragmatism, I think he is more of a dreamer than I am."

"You talk as if dreams are a bad thing, Admiral Jones," Emma points out. "Surely dreams of being a naval officer brought you to your current position."

Jones nods. "That is true, your highness, but it is one thing to have dreams that are attainable through hard work and effort. My brother did not have those dreams."

Emma frowns, uncertain where this line of thought is going, but then the dinner plates are cleared and the musicians start preparing for the dancing. The admiral seems to notice this, and bows before her.

"I am sorry - I have spoken out of turn, your highness. Forgive me, and forget my words." With a final glance, he moves away from her and is immediately swept up in the crowd headed to the ballroom. Emma follows them, because she is princess and this is what she must do, but she keeps looking for navy and gold uniforms, and finds none.

She dances the night with Baelfire, with her father, but with neither of the guests of honor. She catches glimpses of Admiral Jones dancing with other ladies of the court, and even once with her mother, but his brother she does not see - until she catches a glimpse of gold heading out the side door, onto the balcony that overlooks the city.

Emma seizes her chance, and follows.

The night air is so cold on her flushed skin, and she can feel goose bumps rise along her forearms. She crosses her hands over her chest to ward off the chill. At first, she assumes that she is alone, but upon further reflection she is not. There is a figure, seated to her left, staring at his hands.

"Captain Jones."

He starts when she says his name, even though her voice is quiet in the night air. "Are you all right, sir?" she asks.

"Quite fine, princess," he says, standing up quickly. "I'm sorry to trespass on your balcony. I will take my leave."

"You are out here for a reason, Captain Jones," Emma points out. "Are you feeling unwell."

A look crosses his face before she schools it once more into the placid mask she has seen all week. "I will be fine, Princess. I will take my leave."

Anger rushes through Emma. "No you will not, Captain Jones." Her tone surprises him, and he raises an eyebrow (she can't blame him - she has surprised even herself.)

"As the princess commands," he tells her with a wary bow. "How may I be of service?"

Emma is about to speak, but he is looking at her strangely. "You're cold, Princess Emma - take my jacket," he says, removing his coat. He gestures as if to cover her with it, and she agrees. The coarse wool of his uniform coat is harsh against her bare shoulders, but it is warm and when she breathes in, she can smell salt and cinnamon - a surprising combination.

Clad just in shirt sleeves and a waistcoat, he asks her once again, "how may I be of service, your highness."

"Aren't you cold?" she asks, and he shakes his head.

"Nights at sea are colder than this," he tells her. She nods, drawing the coat closer to her.

"Your highness, may I ask - " he starts, and she can see that he is nervous. "My letters - did you receive any?"

Emma opens her mouth to answer then closes them._ How can you tell a man that you fell in love with him through his letters?_ She nods instead.

"I was curious," he tells her. "Thank you."

Even in the moonlight, she can see how his face changes again, from the open look a moment before, to how his jaw is now clenched. He stares off into the distance before looking back at her, as if to compose himself. Silence stretches between them until he speaks again.

"Your highness, if you have no need of me, perhaps I may escort you back inside and retrieve my jacket in the process," he asks. Emma shakes her head. She has been a fool. In keeping things to herself, she has hurt him in the process.

She will speak, now, least she never is given the opportunity again, and she will pay the price if he never speaks to her again.

"I have your letters - all of them. I keep them in my trunk." The words slip out of her mouth before she can school her countenance, and they seem to surprise him.

"Why would you keep them?" he asks, his voice sounding harsh. He swallows, and turns away. "You never wrote back. I hoped - but - "

_It is one thing to have dreams that are attainable through hard work and effort. My brother did not have those dreams._

"They were the most precious thing to me," she tells him, finding in herself the nerve to speak such thoughts. "I did not wish to part from them."

The look on his face when he turns to her - it is like the gallery, all those years ago. There is something there that she cannot describe, and an answering call within herself - is this love? She knows the Killain from her letters who sought to share with everything he experienced, who told her stories with such cheer, and she knows without a doubt that what she saw all those years ago was merely hidden underneath gold braid and wool coats. She would give anything to have that forever.

And yet she did not speak up when Baelfire was proposed as a future husband - did not speak the feelings of her heart, because she was too afraid she was alone. Now, in the moonlight, she can see (so clearly, so painfully) that she was wrong.

She swallows, ready to speak, but he speaks first.

"Princess," he says softly, taking a step towards her. "I was a foolish man to think you'd ever care for someone as low-born as myself, no matter how highly elevated in standing I have become. Please forgive me. You may keep the letters - I do not wish to rob you of whatever comfort they gave you."

"Did you not hear me?" she asks, reaching for him and grabbing his hand. She takes a deep breath. "They were the most precious thing I possessed and still very well might be, for I do not have you."

The words are too much for them both, and yet they do not part. She holds his hand in hers, and he stares at where their fingers touch. She can hear the hitch in his breath as he shifts his hand, entwines his fingers with hers.

"I did not write you back because I did not know how to tell you how I felt," Emma says. "I am not good with words like you."

Killian raises his eyes to meet hers, and she is surprised at the light in them, at the smile on his face. He reaches his other hand up to brush against her face, rests his forehead against hers.

"Then don't use them," he says.

She doesn't, and finds that her lips can speak volumes without uttering a single sentence.

(She will worry about engagements in the morning. For now, she this is all that she wants)


End file.
